


with animal skins around us, we go

by narquelie



Series: the north isn’t true ‘til it’s leading me to you [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Robb plays it smart, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 23:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13534629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narquelie/pseuds/narquelie
Summary: Robb escapes, but there is always a price to pay.





	with animal skins around us, we go

**Author's Note:**

> a prequel to [so collect your scars and wear them well](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1209901)  
> i can't believe i waited 4 years to publish this??

 

“Tell me about my brother's death,” Sansa says in a voice devoid of any emotion. She sits on the other side of his desk; thin limbs stiff and back straight, chin held high and her pale face as if carved in stone. There are no tears in her eyes – at least of that he is grateful.

“I do not know much –,” he tries to say, but her eyes grow cold and insisting, and he finds himself at crossroads.

“I beg of you, Lord Varys.”

He knows all about pretending, of faking fondness and protecting your pain from predators' eyes; that's why he can almost taste Lady Sansa's hatred, the way it oozes from her whole being, surrounding her like a mist of toxic air. Still, he cannot blame her for that.

(she is but a child, after all)

He looks her straight in the eye, disposing of false pretences. “It will not bring you solace, my dear.”

“I do not seek solace, I seek the truth. You are the only one who can give me that, my lord.”

Her voice does not tremble and her eyes yet remain cold and dry, (he entertains the thought that this must be what winter would look like, if it wore a woman's face; a strange, poetic notion indeed).

“Very well, then.” He clasps his hands together on the desk, joining the tips of his fingers. “But mind you, there is not much to tell.”

She waits in silence for his words.

“On the eve of Lord Edmure's wedding day, your brother paid a short visit to your mother's tent, then with a small group of entourage he rode through the night to the Twins, to make amends beforehand –”

“You had spies in my brother's camp?” she interrupts in a shrill voice, that would have sent shivers down his back if he were a different man. Still, he feels the need to deny her unspoken accusation.

“ _My_ spies, not Lannisters'. That is certainly not the same thing, my lady.” He can see her jaw flexing beneath her skin. “But the Lannisters had their spies there too, or – if I may phrase it in a more fitting way now – your brother had betrayers.”

“They were offered bread and salt by the Freys, when the party had caught up with them,” he continues, when all he receives from her is silence. “Still, it is hard to know anything for sure since their arrival, Lord Frey insisted on dealing with his guests in private.”

Sansa licks her lips slowly, unconsciously, (he might have scolded her for letting impulses rule her again, but in the end decides against it).

“What happened to his body?” she asks somewhat quietly, shyly – as if she is not sure herself if she wants to know the answer. “Will they send it back to Winterfell?”

He tries to ignore her childish hopes and change the subject, but she repeats her question – this time in a stronger voice.

He hopes the truth is liberating, he hopes that – in the end – somehow it makes her stronger. 

“It is told that they sew his wolf's head onto his decapitated body.”

“And my mother?”

“Thrown into the river.”

The silence that follows seems to pierce its way through his ear buds, reverberating into his skull. Sansa's face is a mask of ashen despair.

“I am truly, truly sorry, Sansa.” And he means it, sincerely, but words like these mean nothing at all.

She leaves, with a whisper of her blue skirts.

 

-

 

A company of four travels in haste, making quick pass to the East. Even through the barest of terrains, they remain nothing but shadows, straying from settlements and covering their tracks. They hold themselves like knights, yet their attire is too humble for it to be the truth.

They march, steadfast and tireless, until they reach The Fingers.

 

-

 

Pyp is a man of five and ten, perfectly ready to start taking over family business. For now, he still sails with his father – a tan, broad man, of just nature and a stern heart – they sail to the Free Cities, supplementing the Vale with exotic needs. They don't earn nearly as much as Pyp thinks they deserve to, but that's meant to change once he takes over. Pyp prides himself in having a better knack for business than his father.

The time for business is slowly fading though, when the Narrow Sea becomes feisty in anticipation for winter. It's already chilling in the open sea, and sometimes the journey takes even two more weeks than previously planned. Their sails are rarer, and only for urgent matters. They store the most needed supplies in the basement of their house and hope to somehow endure winter.

That is why Pyp almost falls off the bench on his porch when four travellers approach him, asking to dock his father's ship.

They are serious men, he thinks, with heavy frowns on their faces and heavy coats (although in tatters) covering their tall frames. He can see though, that two of the men are red-headed – probably from the Riverlands – the third is broad and angry like a bear and the fourth – the fourth is a woman.

His last observation rules everything else out – no matter the weather, no matter the strong hands to help on board, not even the matter the good of their hearts – there may never, _ever_ be a woman on board.

He tries to explain that, careful with his words as to not offend the lady too much. The frowns on the travellers' faces deepen. Pyp feels a little sorry for them; maybe he should advise them to get rid of their female companion before trying another harbour, surely she wouldn't mind _that_ much? But then the quietest man steps forward – the one with red hair, so bundled with battered furs Pyp can barely see the blues of his eyes – and extends his hand. He holds out a small, but stuffed pouch and almost shoves it into Pyp's hands. When he wagers a look inside, all he can see is gold.

_Very well then._

 

-

 

His father is clearly upset with the turn of events, but money is money, and with the winter coming they will need as much as they can get. That's why – with a stormy face and hostile stares towards the woman – he boards the ship, and invites the travellers along.

The other redhead, called Quentyn, tells them tersely that he's a lord's equerry, while the two other men – Jon and Ned – are blacksmiths. Their lady companion is travelling to Braavos to meet her betrothed, so as family friends they accompany her to ensure her safety (at that point of the story, he  can see the lady Alys scoff softly – she can't be too fond of her future husband, that's for sure). The men are also hoping to find a job beyond the Narrow Sea – as the War of the Five Kings has made it extremely hard to find anything stable these days.

That – at last – catches Pyp's father interest. “Did you fight in the war?” he asks, his attentive eyes taking in the scratches on the bear-like's – Jon's – face, or the way Ned's hand absentmindedly curls around the hilt of his hidden sword.

Quentyn nods his head, clearly not keen on the subject. It's obvious that the war did them no good, and they were running with their tails between their legs, as would Pyp's grandfather say; the renegades, the losers. But Pyp is not quick to judge, after all he doesn't know the whole story. His father though, seems determined to learn it all.

“Which king you were fighting for? We had many to choose from, didn't we.”

None of his companions seem to be keen on speaking up, so it's once again on Quentyn to answer the question. “King Robb Stark, of the North,” he says, his face darkening visibly. Pyp's father chuckles at that.

“Well, did you no good, did it? Boy-king was too damn stubborn and cheeky for his own good. Lost most of his army in one night, did you hear? Or did you run only after that?”

Jon's hand travels to where his sword must be, tucked beneath the furs; the woman, Alys, grits her teeth and for a split second she resembles a wild beast – something that finds you in the dark of the forest and lunges at you with its claws and shiny teeth; even the collected Quentyn clenches his fists and looks darkly at Pyp's father, who on his part seems to be fairly oblivious to the effect his words had.

In the end it is again the quiet one who has the final word. “That's true, good man. A crown is too heavy to be a boy's toy. We've learned about that the hard way.” He sounds resigned when he says that, his voice weary with the troubles of many years, even though he looks to be no older than twenty. He puts his hand on Jon's shoulder, and the man finally loosens his grip on the sword.

Pyp's father nods his head and drops the subject, seemingly deep in thought.

They spend the rest of the day in tense silence.

 

-

 

Pyp's father insists on being the first man on watch that night, and their companions nod their heads in relief. They retreat to their small cabins without a word of protest – it makes Pyp wonder how long they've been travelling without any rest, and how on earth they've managed to work so tirelessly on board anyway?

Pyp stays with his father above deck, in hopes the older man recognises his son's dedication and toughness and takes those in consideration when it comes to dealing business.

The moon is high in the sky, when a savage scream pierces the air.

 

-

 

_“It seems that I have waited too long,” Robb the Boy said, kneeling by his mother's feet. He felt so small then, his crown crushing down on him; he feared it would slip down to his neck and suffocate him like an iron chain. “I have waited too long, and nothing but death followed my footsteps.”_

_Lady Catelyn touched the crown with her fingers, then gently pulled it off his head. She laid it down on the table, dragging her fingers through her son's ruffled hair._

_“Then go,” she said softly. His head spun with lightness. “Go and save us. But be careful; you'll need to earn her trust first, above all.”_

_Robb nodded restlessly, he'd heard these words a thousand times before. “She keeps a Mormont as her close advisor – that's what makes Dacey the perfect diplomat in this situation,” he said with a somewhat bitter laugh. “And Lucas is good with words, he will get us through the journey undetected. As to Smalljon – ”_

_“Him I trust the most of all of your company,” Lady Catelyn interrupted. “I only wish you would take your wolf with you.”_

_“I need someone trusted to keep you safe here, mother. Unless you wish to accompany me to Meereen, that is.”_

_“My duty is by my brother's side on his wedding day.”_

_He kissed her forehead before leaving the tent; crownless and stumbling under the weight of the burden crushing down on his shoulders._

_He would never see her again._

_-_

_“Boom”_ , the drum sounds, “ _boom doom boom_ __doom,”__ and Robb Stark screams again.


End file.
